


Inked and Confused

by CinnamonQuartz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonQuartz/pseuds/CinnamonQuartz
Summary: Ink makes sense. Pansy can't say the same about anything else though.





	Inked and Confused

It shouldn’t have felt so good. Him kissing her like he was. All tongue and teeth and everything a woman hated in a kiss. Too invasive. Too rough. But he managed to get her forgetting about her failed, albeit arranged, marriage, and her dispassionate parents that set it up. He got her forgetting about her failed, albeit fun, tattoo shop that tanked immediately.

He got her forgetting about her god damn failed life. No albeit. No buts. No exceptions.

She went to this little holiday party for exactly one reason--the good booze Daphne Greengrass gave out like candy. So she teased her dark hair and did it up. She put on the glittering tights in Christmas Red. She put on the deep green velvet dress that wrapped around her hips nicely. And the headband. What on earth possessed her to wear such a godawful piece of plastic, she’d never know. The big bulbs lit up. It was festive. Or something. 

The third flute of champagne seemed extra bubbly.

It went down quick when she caught him staring from across the room, face illuminated by the blinking red and green lights of the many Christmas trees that overcrowded the stuffy room. He didn’t seem to match the last memory she had of him.

Standing in that empty hallway at Hogwarts, on the 7th floor, looking like a boy who wished he could help her. 

Now he looked healthy and dare she say… grown up? He needed to shave--she didn’t care for facial hair on men. The same boring brown eyes looked disinterested in the ongoing festivities around him, but they warmed when they landed on her.

She just so happened to be looking right at him while sugarplums danced by her ears.

She imagined his lips twitching up when he caught sight of her headband, but it was probably just the third champagne messing with her eyesight. And if she were imagining the likes of him giving her a smile, maybe that was her cue to quit drinking.

Or grab another one. 

She made it to the sidebar without running into anyone she wanted to speak with, took another glass from the overly happy bartender, and drained half of it by the time he stepped into the empty space next to her. Smooth. Real smooth. 

“Buy you a drink?” he offered, voice throaty from alcohol. She wasn't the only one taking advantage of Daphne's generosity.

“It’s open bar,” she informed, sticking her nose up in the air at him, disappointed in such a lame pick up line. She didn’t believe in playing hard to get, but a little effort went a long way in her opinion. Something. Anything at all really. 

“We could go somewhere else,” he looked down at her, the meaning unmistakable. Putting her in her place. Warmth, which had nothing to do with the champagne, spread deep in her belly at his suggestion. 

Which is exactly how she found herself pressed into Daphne’s coat closet, with him pushing the hem of her dress up as he kissed the hell out of her. And it shouldn’t have felt good. Shouldn’t have been happening. 

And she ran her fingers through his beard like she liked it, kissing him as he undid the buckle of his belt. The sound of him lowering his zipper sent a flurry of emotion through her, arousal, heat, need… panic. She signed the divorce papers three hours ago. 

“I can’t,” she gasped out, releasing her deathgrip on his beard. “I can’t.”

“No?” he immediately backed off, his hands falling away from her thighs. Though he looked put out. She couldn’t hold it against him as she was the one who dragged him in there.

“Sorry, Longbottom,” she stumbled out of the coat closet, biting down on swollen lips. 

“Cya around, Parkinson.”

.

She ran into him again on her birthday, having scraped enough coin together to treat herself to a trip to Divina’s, a chocolate shop renown for the best chocolate-covered cherries. She had a thing for the dark chocolate ones. She dug deep and bought three, as well as a strong cup of coffee. 

She managed it only because she sold some work to Blaise Zabini’s mother last weekend, a series of three drawings Pansy did in charcoal of the newest husband. Nude. Blaise hadn’t been thrilled. But Pansy needed the money, so Blaise would just have to suck it up. 

The awful weather didn’t take away from her cheery mood, especially as she grabbed a small table in the corner of the shop, sitting in a chair with a very tall back. She pulled her scarf tighter and looked out into the dreary rain, feeling full of hope for the first time in awhile. 

Her parents weren’t speaking to her, both of them beyond disappointed in her life choices to leave her wealthy, noble born husband for a life of poverty and art. Her coat needed replacing, her boots were worn, and yes, her husband and his parents left her penniless after the divorce. But she was far happier than she’d been as Armistead’s trophy wife. 

More than happy.

She was free.

The first cherry tasted like heaven. She might have actually moaned in pleasure, though the whirl of the espresso machine in the background drowned out any sound she made. It was kind of perfect. A rainy evening to spend a calm birthday. This time last year, Armistead had thrown her a ball to honor her 23rd birthday. Three quarters of those in attendance she didn’t recognize, all brought her extravagant gifts she couldn’t remember even a year later. 

She did remember the blisters those damn heels had given her.

The second cherry somehow tasted better than the first, rich and sweet without being too much. She sipped her coffee and sighed happily. Yes, this lonely, rainy birthday was far better than anything Armistead gave her. If only her family understood that.

“What are families for if not to drive you crazy?” she wondered out loud, watching the rain come down even harder, the cafe lights illuminating the droplets as they ran down the window pane.

“To imprint toxic habits and behaviors in childhood that carry over into your adult life?”

She looked up and watched as a stranger slid into the chair opposite hers, carrying his own frothy coffee and unwrapping the scarf from around his head with sure hands. Dark eyes, a scruffy beard. Not so strange after all.

“Well, I can see you had a sunny childhood, Longbottom,” she narrowed her eyes at his intrusion, angry he managed to spot her in this dark corner. 

“Besides being told what a bitter disappointment I was and being constantly thrown out windows? It was super,” but he smiled as he drank from his mug. “‘Course, then I was famous for about 15 minutes and suddenly I was far less disappointing. My uncle even stopped throwing me out windows to see if I would bounce.”

She laughed, recognizing the god awful habit of a Pureblood family immediately. Hers never threw her out a window, though they did to Pear once. She bounced right into the garden and landed on two feet. For Pansy, they liked to chop off all her hair to see if it would grow back. It never did. But when she was six, she tripped in the garden and smushed an entire row of her Aunt Trina’s prized Royal White Roses. 

Shaking from fear of what exactly Aunt Trina would dish out as punishment, she ran to her mother only for them to return to the garden and the roses were exactly as they had been, no damage to be seen.

“Bitter disappointment, currently there now. The fame though, that’s on you, Hero. Maybe you should mind your own business next time,” she mirrored his position, sipping from her mug and eyeing him carefully. 

Trust was the question here.

Why exactly had he joined her? Their cute little chat was an anomaly, for sure, for they had nothing in common. Was he hoping for another round in the closet? Maybe if the drink in her hand was champagne she would be more inclined. But her birthday so far had been a perfect, quiet day. No need to ruin it by making decisions she would only come to regret later.

“Maybe, but I’m not smart enough to learn from my mistakes,” he said casually, but his eyes had gone darker. How she could even tell was beyond her. They were plain brown. No green or golden flecks, no outline of something darker. Just brown.

Yet so dark she couldn’t tell pupil from iris, so dark she couldn’t look away. 

Then his words finally processed. 

“I do,” she warned clearly. She’d been told on several occasions that stern voice of hers could kill if she wasn’t careful, yet Neville only grinned at her. 

“So what brings you to the best chocolate maker in the country?” he asked as if he hadn’t just propositioned her so smoothly. 

She gestured to the last cherry on her plate, “It’s my birthday.”

He smiled deep, his cheeks creasing pleasantly, little lines forming around his eyes. “Are they good? I’ve never tried one.”

Damn smile was making her warm again. “I’ve had two,” she admitted with her own smile, unable to stop herself. It wasn’t for him. It was the chocolate, okay? “They’re too good to be true, in my opinion.”  
Then she did the unthinkable, pushing her chocolate covered cherry towards him. He gave her a questioning look, but didn’t waste time before picking up the last treat. 

“Wow,” he covered his mouth, clearly surprised. 

“I told you so,” she finished her coffee, uncomfortable with just how warm she’d gotten. A smile shouldn’t have her feeling this damn good. 

“Don’t go,” he held his hand out to stop her, placing it just over her arm before she went to stand. She looked down at his glove. Brown Dragonhide. Expensive. “You were here first, I’ll leave.”

Well… how kind was that? But it wasn’t necessarily him that made her uncomfortable, it was the fact that she’d only been divorced for two months. Though at no point in time had she ever found herself in love with Armistead, they had been married, had taken vows, vows that she never broke despite knowing Armistead did. Often.

She wanted to tell Neville they should leave together, which shocked her more than anything. Sex wasn’t exactly something she ever enjoyed before. Clearly he was interested, and his eyes made her heart do loops for some unfathomable reason, but, she reminded herself, she already promised not to make any regrettable decisions that day. As much as she wanted to get lost in those endlessly dark eyes. She nodded and relaxed back in her chair, staring out into the rain again. She didn’t want to say goodbye to him, but what else could she say? He stood up and wrapped his scarf back around his neck.

“Cya around, Parkinson.” 

He kept calling her that, Parkinson. Her maiden name. She missed it. He started to walk away, and her mouth opened before she could think. “You’re a good man, Neville.” 

He sucked in a harsh breath, as if she harmed him, which had not been her intention at all. All too quickly she remembered most men hated being told what they were. An apology rushed forward but he was leaning down, his hand coming to the back of her head, and before she could speak, Neville kissed her.

Hard. 

And he tasted like cherries and chocolate. 

It was over far too soon, leaving her breathless and shaking in her chair with the tall back as he held her face tenderly, something she was unfamiliar with. Looking down at her, he ran a thumb over her lips and said, “Happy Birthday.”

Then he left. 

.

Eight months and a prayer later, she slid the key into her new place. A total dump located in a back alley on the southernmost area of Diagon Alley. Throw a stone and it would land in the roughest street of Knockturn Alley. A perfect place to open a new tattoo parlour. 

Most men came in, took one look at her, and laughed. She was five foot nothing, without an ounce of muscle. But her Strongarm Charm had most of them sweating in her chair, perfectly still, ready to take the needle. But the women trusted her. A nice trade off, in her opinion.

She trudged along, ignoring her parents, ignoring Armistead, and just worked. Sometimes she ran in the mornings, but that was to work off the booze. Most times she slept in until the afternoon and ate takeaway to avoid cooking. 

And sometimes, when she craved the taste of chocolate, she would sketch the darkest of eyes.

Daphne came knocking a few times, as a friend, not a customer, wondering how she was after the nasty divorce that left her desolate and her parents acting like she did it to them. 

As if it hadn’t hurt her. 

Theodore Nott came and took advantage of the friend discount, spent a good bit of gold on a shoulder piece dedicated to his mother. It should have been cliche, but Pansy always had a soft spot for men who loved their mothers. It said something about the kind of man they were. Armistead detested his, and his aunts, and both his grandmothers.

Pear showed up one night, all red curls and blue eyes. The spitting image of their mother. Pansy pushed her too long bangs out of her eyes and wondered why, for the millionth time, she ended up looking like a not-so-female version of her dad. Dark hair, hard angles, and a mean face while Pear looked sultry and sexy both.

Pansy wrote out the names of her two nieces in perfect cursive, Pear gushing the entire time. Of course it went in a place their mother would never see. “Love you, sissy. Keep your chin up.”

“Never went down, big sis,” Pansy said with a fake smile. 

“See you for dinner?”

“Unlikely.” The Family Dinner, where her parents liked to crucify her for being nothing like Pear? Yeah, she’d had enough of that, though she didn’t hold it against her sister. 

With a mock growl of frustration, Pear kissed her cheek. “Next time baby sister.”

A few nights later, a drunk duo stumbled in. She wasn’t busy, so she decided not to kick them out though they clearly had too much liquor to make a life changing decision like getting a tattoo. She convinced herself it had nothing to do with the fact that one of them was Neville Longbottom.

The other, a tall redhead she didn’t recognize, pushed Longbottom into the chair and burst into giggles. “Get a dragon! A big one.” 

“That’s stupid, Susie,” Neville giggled. The image of this bear of a man, with his beard far overgrown, who towered over her, giggling like a schoolgirl brought back that all too familiar warmth and the taste of chocolate flooded her mouth. 

“Let’s do a tree!”

Pansy looked over to the redhead, this ‘Susie’ girl, and realized it was little Susan Bones, all grown up. Neither of them recognized her, if they did, they didn’t let on. The witch jumped up and down. “A big one! Across your chest!”

“A dragon tree! A dragon made out of a tree!” Neville slurred drunkenly and they both burst into a fresh bout of giggles. 

Pansy rolled her eyes, secretly tapping her ink gun with her wand, switching it to the temporary ink while Longbottom, the Gryffindor Hero, clumsily undid the buttons of his shirt while laughing hysterically.

It rather hurt he didn’t seem to realize it was her, when she’d been obsessing over his eyes for almost a year. But perhaps the kiss they shared back in February meant a whole lot more to her than him, and why should it have meant anything at all? They were no one to each other. And it had been a long time since they last saw each other. 

“Sign here,” she told her customer. Good thing Pansy was secretly a nice person, someone else might have easily taken advantage of their drunken state. Especially since business wasn’t exactly hopping.   
Neville signed with her cheap quill and then the scroll rolled up before filing itself away in the file cabinet. The contract clearly stated the tattoo was temporary, but he didn’t notice, far too busy giggling at Susan Bones.

They must be a couple, from their red cheeks and secret jokes they shared.

She never wanted to describe someone as jovial before. But the word fit nicely for Neville, his smile wide and robust, his chest heaving with his drunken laughter. Susan too, seemed in high spirits, far more than just a night spent between friends. 

It took Pansy a bit to finish up the giant dragon across Neville’s chest, her teeth biting down her lip in concentration. Not for the tattoo design. And not because he kept wiggling with laughter, even though she warned him to stay still several times. But because she wanted to touch. 

She wondered if he spent all his time at the gym, or if he worked a labor intensive job. The dips and valleys of his front making her mouth water. Usually she didn’t have such a hard time not ogling her customers, skin was just a canvas to her. But she wanted to linger on Neville’s.

She took a lot of artistic liberties.

She made the scales look like the bark of a tree. The tail swooped down his left side and came up behind his shoulder like the root of a heady plant. The dragon’s head rested on the opposite shoulder, in the front. The eyes closed as if in slumber. He giggled the entire time, though it took far less of it than if she wasn’t using magic to aid her art.

Afterwards, he stood and flexed for Susan, who howled with laughter. A bag of gold dropped into Pansy’s hand and the duo disappeared into the night, arms around each other’s shoulders. Pansy wondered how long it would be before she saw the likes of Neville Longbottom again. 

.

The answer turned out to be the very next day. It was half past one in the afternoon and she was still in bed, which was really just a squishy couch, having lost the fight to get up and go for a run that morning. She answered the banging on the front door despite the obvious We’re Closed! sign that hung on the glass. She also knew she wasn’t anywhere near proper to be answering the door, wearing only a pair of panties and a tight t-shirt in black with the faces of The Weird Sisters printed in white across the front. She imagined her hair was a right mess too. It always stuck up on the side when she first woke up, especially if she’d been drinking.

She couldn’t grow it out to save her life, but by god, she could do bedhead. 

“Can I help you?” she snapped as she opened the door, tired and grumpy. Hungover. She hadn’t had a caffeine fix yet. Politeness be damned. 

“You!” he stood there, pointing his receipt at her. His face turned from anger to surprise then back to anger under his messy, unkempt beard. “It’s you!”

“Again I ask, can I fucking help you with something?” she growled back, leaning her hands on the opposite door frames for support, and hopefully it made her look a little threatening. But it was hard to intimidate someone so much taller than herself.

“Yes! You can explain your reasoning for thinking it was a good idea to give someone as drunk as I was a tattoo that covers half my damn body!” he yelled meanly. 

Ugh. She pulled on his shirt, the same from last night, and brought him inside the shop before she froze to death or he woke up everyone else on the street. Except, she reminded herself, it was 1:30 in the afternoon. She was probably the only one still asleep. 

Slamming the door shut, she marched over to her file cabinet and retrieved his contract. “Read it and weep, Longbottom. You signed it.”

He grabbed the parchment with angry fingers, skipping down to his signature. “I was beyond drunk last night, this can’t be legal.”

He looked up at her, clearly pissed off, before his eyes darted down to her bare legs. They lingered on her tattoos for a long moment before skipping up to her chest. 

“I told you,” she reminded him sternly, crossing her arms as she became very aware of the lack of bra she wore. Under a very thin t-shirt. “To read it.”

Blinking several times, he finally did as she said, rereading the contract she had him sign. She took immense pleasure in the moment he realized exactly how nice of a person she was, the instant relief softening his features. He looked back up to her. “Temporary. It’s temporary.”

“Yes, I switched the ink when you weren’t paying attention. If, at the end of the week, you decide you like the design, a simple spell will make it permanent. For an extra fee, I can also animate it for you,” she informed him in as professional a voice she could muster. 

Then she ruined it by telling him to get lost, turning her back on him and heading through the back door that led to her tiny little bedroom. She collapsed back onto her couch face down and tried to find sleep again, because she couldn’t keep looking at Neville’s eyes.

He leaned against her door frame and looked into her messy room. Stacks of sketchbooks in every corner, her couch pushed up against the opposite wall, a single lamp. There wasn’t much to look at, so why didn’t he just leave? 

“I’m closed,” she groaned at him. “Or do your reading problems extend to the rest of your life as well?”

“I think my flobberworms at school lived in a bigger box than this,” he commented, rudely. 

Wow. She went through all this trouble to save him from getting a giant dragon tattooed across his chest and now he insults her home. Being nice was never worth it in the end. “Get lost, asshole.”  
For the second time that morning she jumped out of bed, and promptly pushed as hard as she could on Neville’s sturdy shoulders. He looked amused, and that made her angry. He had a girlfriend, the lovely, tall, redheaded Susan Bones. “I said get lost!” she shouted again, digging her feet in and pressing into his shoulders.

“You aren’t as mean as I remember you,” he said. Not budging. 

“I just called you an asshole,” she pointed out. “And if you don’t leave, I will get my wand.”

“How did I not recognize you last night?” he asked in awe, not phased by her threat in the least. “I’ve been thinking of you for months.” 

“I - what?” She stopped her fruitless attempts to push him out of her shop and instead just stood with her hands on his shoulders, looking up at him dumbly. “You’ve been thinking about me for months? And what would your girlfriend have to say about that?”

Now it was his turn to be confused. “Girlfriend? What girlfriend?” 

“She was here with you last night,” Pansy backed up, finally releasing her grip from his shoulders. If she hadn’t, she didn’t think she ever would. 

Unfortunately, his comment about the box she lived in wasn’t far off. She had nowhere else to go so she sat back down on the couch and turned her back to him. Feet kicking the balled up blanket. Her good ink pen rolled from underneath the cheap quilt and off the edge, bouncing into the mess in the corner. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, leaning forward to retrieve it. 

It cost far too much to neglect. 

But he beat her there, picking up the pen and just brushing against her fingers in the process. He also found her open sketch book. Where she’d spent an embarrassing amount of time drawing his eyes from memory.

Oh no. Her head jerked up and found they were eye level with each other. Why the hell did she let him in here? And why the hell was she so warm?? “Shit,” she repeated before she leaned in and kissed him. As hard as he liked to kiss her. It was her turn to initiate, though she immediately knew it for the mistake it was. 

Armistead cheated on her with different women the entire duration of their marriage. And here she was, kissing a man who had someone in his life. What a goddamn tease. “No, no, I can’t,” she pushed against him though he wrapped both arms around her when she wasn’t looking, pulling her to her feet. His hold held firm, so she turned her head away, his beard scratching at her cheek. “Please, I can’t.”

He leaned his head into her neck, gasping for breath. “Damn it,” he said, frustrated. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“I’m not trying to lead you on.”

“You sure?”

“My husband… my ex-husband cheated on me quite a bit,” she breathed out, chest heaving, feeling vulnerable. “If you’re with Susan Bones-”

“Susan!” he shouted. So loudly it surprised her. “She was here last night?”

He released her back to the couch before he started pacing back and forth. Each pace was exactly two steps, her tiny room not nearly big enough. “Have you ever had a friend that is such a bad influence, and you know it too, but you just let her pull you around town, doing bad things?! ‘C’mon Nevvy, you seem so bummed, let’s go for a drink or two’! I end up blind drunk with a tattoo of a damn dragon!”  
No, Daphne liked to gossip a bit, but Pansy didn’t have any drinking friends. She was perfectly capable of getting drunk on her own. “Exactly how much to drink did you have last night?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

He stopped, turned his eyes back on her. “How much?” He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, rather aggressively, and revealed the top bit of dragon she’d put on his skin. “I don’t even remember leaving the bar.”

“Well, you did, and you wandered in here with your girlfriend-”

“Friend-”

“And now you’re back and yelling at me and insulting my home. Maybe I should’ve used the permanent ink-”

“I swear to god-”

“And charged you for it too! But I didn’t! And yet, you’re still here bothering me!”

“Maybe I’m just surprised it’s you!” he shouted back, throwing his hands up. “I’ve been going back to Divina’s for months trying to run into you again.”

“Why? Trying to get your dick wet, Longbottom?” she accused hotly. Why else would he be so interested, every time they got together they ended up making out. What other conclusion could he draw about her, but that she was also after some quick and easy sex?

But she assumed wrong by thinking his yelling meant he felt upset. He wasn’t, not until her words. They made his eyes narrow in her direction as his lips thinned, making him seem twice as dangerous. 

And twice as sexy. 

“You want to get it wet for me, Parkinson? You’re the one that dragged me into that closet last year, and you’re the one that kissed me just now,” he said in his own stern voice. Now, he was trying to intimidate her. 

“Not my name,” she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut, because she couldn’t deny it, what he was saying. She did kiss him first. And drew a huge dragon across his chest just so she could spend more time with him shirtless. “Parkinson isn’t my name anymore.” 

When she looked back towards him, his eyebrow went up. “What’s your married name?”

“Flowers,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks turn red. 

“Flowers,” he repeated, clearly holding back laughter. “Pansy Flowers. Why didn’t you change it back when you got a divorce?”

His question drove her to her feet, grabbing at his shirt. “Because I can’t fucking afford it, just like I can’t afford a coffee from Divina’s, and instead of taking advantage of your drunk ass last night, I switched the ink in my gun because you and your damn girlfriend-”

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss, to shut her up. She didn’t care, already addicted to the feel of his beard on her face and the feel of his mouth on hers. Rough hands pulled her into his embrace, hands coming down to cup her ass, to pull her up until she wrapped her legs around his waist. Until he completely surrounded her. He pulled away briefly to say, “Susan isn’t my girlfriend.”  
“Good,” she clutched at his shirt and pulled him back into the kiss.

.

Sarcasm seemed to be the cornerstone of their relationship, which wasn’t defined as anything other than sex at the moment. Sex and ink. He let the giant dragon fade away, but it took very little to convince him to get some real ink. The permanent kind. 

He seemed to enjoy being in her chair, with her sitting on him, wearing nothing and holding her ink gun. “Stay still,” she warned for the ninth time. “Don’t want to mess this up, do we?” 

He wore only a pair of jeans. She straddled his abs as she worked on his shoulder, the ancient runic symbol for protection, one she suggested. It didn’t take more than one brain cell to figure out that was what Neville was. A protector. 

His hand cupped her butt cheek, fingers digging in. “You’re wet,” he groaned, sweat dotting his forehead. “I can feel it.”

“Stay still.” She smirked, knowing she could do this all day. Torture him like this. She moved ever so slightly, pushing herself against his hard abdomen. She herself had started feeling pretty good. Fit. They’d been working out together, and more and more mornings she found herself running instead of sleeping in. “I would’ve been done a lot sooner if you would stop moving so much.” 

Though, she secretly wanted him to continue his restless movements beneath her, prolonging the process. She enjoyed having him between her thighs, enjoyed the torturous foreplay that seemed unique to them. 

She’d never done anything like this before. 

“I can’t,” he groaned even louder. But he let go of her ass and reached over his head to grip the headrest instead, the muscles of his arm bulging and his eyes squeezed shut in agony.

“Poor baby, does it hurt?” she cooed, purposely shifting downwards to get a better angle. And the movement pushed herself over the hard ridge in his jeans created by his erection. One he’d been trying to contain for nearly an hour now. No, it wouldn’t normally take her so long to do a small tattoo like this, but she had him at her mercy. She had him mostly naked at her mercy. 

And she was milking it for all its worth. 

“Nope,” he lied, barely holding back a tremble. He peeked at her, his eyes so dark she wanted to melt. “I feel super. Absolutely super.” 

Squeezing her thighs together, she rocked against him. “Are you sure, I could give you something… for the pain.” 

“Woman…” he buried his head into arm, groaning loudly. “You’re killing me.”

Maybe she’d tortured him enough. She leaned across his chest and snagged her wand from her work table, tapping it gently against his new ink. “Oops,” she whispered close to his ear. 

“You didn’t,” he sat up in a panic, looking down at his shoulder. 

It jostled her a bit, and she grabbed onto his waist to hold tight. Their new position had her breasts rubbing into his front and she thoroughly enjoyed it. “Sucker, everytime,” she giggled, pressing even closer. She threw her wand carelessly to the side. 

“You are in so much trouble.” 

His hands came between them, quickly undoing the button on his jeans. She enjoyed his frantic movements, his desperation as he started pushing his jeans and briefs down just enough. His hand gripped his erection but the other came to her hips, pulling her forward roughly. He lined their bodies perfectly, until she was sinking down over the head of his cock.

He hadn’t lied before. She was soaking wet for him. 

“So much trouble,” he moaned, grabbing her hips. He didn’t waste time, roughly rocking them together until they both came undone. Both of them screaming their pleasure. Something she quite liked about Neville, he didn’t try to hide how much he wanted her.

Gasping for air, she collapsed into his hold, happily pressing her lips into his sweaty neck. Finally, he leaned back in the chair, and took her with him. “You like it?” she asked. 

“Love it,” he told her, eyes still closed, chest heaving. “Will it protect me?”

“Yep,” she took a ragged breath. “From demons and tricksters most certainly, maybe even a fae or two.”

“Liar,” he reached up and pushed her sweaty bangs from her face. Then he said something new. “Want to have dinner?”

“Can’t,” she got off his lap and searched for her clothes. They were there… somewhere, surely. “Broke.”

“I’ll pay,” he rolled his eyes. 

“No, thanks.” That was the last thing she needed. She could just hear Armistead’s voice, mocking her for finding another rich man to shack up with. A rich Pureblood to boot. ‘I thought you could take care of yourself?’ it said. 

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, zipping up his jeans. 

He meant for the tat, but she couldn’t help it. “Lasted about 2 minutes, we can say this one is on the house, honey.”

“For that, I should be charging you,” he grinned, rather wickedly, but he didn’t back off. 

“Idiot,” she muttered, slipping into her own black jeans and fishing out her t-shirt from underneath Neville’s boots. For some reason she never could find her bra after a visit with Neville. She jerked her thumb towards her sign on the window after she finished getting dressed. “Shop’s closed, don’t worry about it.”

“I owe you,” he insisted. “Let me buy you dinner.”

“You buying me dinner. That sounds like a date,” she crossed her arms and indulged herself by watching him search for his own shirt. “You want to date me, Longbottom?” 

“I don’t know, Flowers,” he snorted. As he always did when he remembered her married name. “What do you think?” 

“I think you’re in it for the free ink, or the free sex, could be either,” she crossed her arms and waited by her bedroom. 

Finally finding his own shirt, he pulled it over his head and came to stand in front of her. “And I think you’re a scaredy cat.” He leaned over her, smiling in that way he loved to smile. He knew she would fall for it, because he knew she was damn helpless against him. 

“Fine,” she caved, reaching up to run her fingers through his beard. “But I’m not going to like it and I’m not going to be happy at all.”

.

She loved his sheets. It was almost rude how soft and comfortable they were. All the nights she spent in Neville’s bed were catching up to her. Taunting her. Where’s your couch now? They seemed to say as she curled up on her side, pulling the pillow in closer. She just spent a few hours being petted and adored and thoroughly sexed by a wealthy Pureblood and she hated it as much as she loved it. 

Hated it, because the little worm of doubt in her mind whispered he was just biding his time, waiting to turn her into his little wife, tote her around for his friends to see. Not the life she wanted--if she did, she would have stayed with Armistead. Hated it, because he might have been wealthy, but Neville didn’t behave like it. He didn’t act like it. He might have inherited his family manor and a bit of gold from them, but he worked hard to grow that money. And Pansy knew she was holding it against him. Unfairly.

Armistead didn’t beat her, didn’t abuse her, didn’t mistreat her, but he cheated on her. And made her wear fancy dress robes that covered up her tattoos. He made her be a different person every day.  
And the terror of returning to that life kept her from being rational. 

She rolled up into a sit, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. 

“Going somewhere, Flowers?” 

Her shoulders tensed, his words pushing her up to her feet quicker than the worm. Without his cabillion count thread sheet to cover her, she was bare naked. “Home. I got what I came for.”

“Oooh,” he rolled over on his side, coming up on an elbow to look at her. The sheet fell to his waist. “Scaredy cat.”

“Who’s scared?” she shrugged and turned away, otherwise his eyes alone would bring her back to bed, never mind him shirtless. Was there anything more attractive?

Instead, she searched for her damn clothes. Something that seemed to be a daily occurrence since she started seeing Neville Longbottom, since she gave in and decided to go to dinner with him. “I think you’re the one that’s scared,” she added a minute later, pulling her little black dress over her messy head. 

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear what I want,” he said and she could feel his eyes on her, somehow. “There’s nothing to be afraid of after that.” 

“Sure there is,” she stuck her feet into her boots and turned back to him. “I could still say no.”

“You won’t,” he sounded cocky. 

“I am,” she looked him right in the eye. Pissed off at his arrogance, which usually wasn’t even a thing. He seemed to be the least arrogant man she ever met, except for this. Right here. 

This… proposal. Which happened a week ago, mid sex, knowing full well she was more likely to say yes to him then. She almost had, and that was cheating, in her opinion. She’d been on the moon, so full of him and the pleasure he brought her. They’d been sleeping together for almost a year. He knew exactly how to get her off. 

“For now.” Arrogant, arrogant man!

“I can’t even bring myself to stay over for a night, how do you expect me to marry you?” 

It was a valid point. They’d been sexing it up, but not once had she spent the whole night. She couldn’t. That little voice in her head getting bigger and bigger all the time. 

He crawled to the end of the bed and sat with his legs hanging over the edge, pulling her into the space between. A rather serious look on his usually smiling face. 

"Give me one good reason why you'd rather sleep on that crappy couch than here."

"Because it's mine," she told him softly. The value of that, of having kept her tattoo parlour open all this time, of being able to support herself when no one in her family thought she could? She couldn’t give that up. “Because they all thought I would go crawling back to him, because I couldn’t live without his money. If I marry you…”

They would say the same things. 

“Are you marrying me for my money? You don’t let me buy you a thing,” he growled, and she realized that he was actually quite angry now. His hands came up to her hips, gripping hard. “Who the hell cares what your shitty family has to say? They treat you like dirt, Pansy. They let you be homeless instead of giving you support after your divorce. They demean and ignore you and then come around just often enough to make sure you know exactly how little they think about you.”

She tried to pull away. “Don’t talk about my family like that, Longbottom.”

But he held even tighter. “It’s the truth, and if they were here right now, I would say as much right to their faces. Don’t you want to be with someone who is going to choose you every time? Defend you against your family?” 

“Like you’re one to talk,” she sniffed, pushing at his bare shoulders. “Your family treats you just as horribly as mine does and yet you say nothing!”

His eyes bulged with anger. “My family is nothing like yours, they actually love me-”

“Love isn’t the problem,” she shoved him. “Your Gran constantly puts you down for not following your dad’s footsteps, becoming an Auror, doesn’t she? Your uncle talks about your achievements like it’s some great thing your family did, when it was all you. And that skank of a cousin of yours only comes around because she knows you’ll give her money, Neville. Yet you say nothing? Don’t talk like you would defend me against my family, you can’t even defend yourself.”

“That’s not, it’s not… not the same thing,” he stammered hotly. 

“It’s exactly the same,” she finally got out of his grip. Shaking while she did. Yelling made her throat hurt, and her heart. “You asked me to marry you, and I said no. Get it through your head, this has always just been about sex. That’s all it ever was between us.” 

And with that, she turned on her toe and left his bedroom before she did something really awful, like cry. 

.

She slept right up until her afternoon appointment. One with an ‘Ellie B’. It wasn’t often she got an appointment request, most of her clients were walk ins. But more and more lately she’d have to tell people to make an appointment because business had really started to pick up in the last few months. 

She was single again. 

All her energy went into her work. 

Stumbling into the front, pulling on her boots, she pushed her hair out of her face before splashing it with water at the worksink. Clearly, she had far too much to drink the night before. She put on coffee before she flipped the sign on the front door. 

It opened not a minute later. 

“Hello, Pansy,” Susan Bones walked in, her navy robes fresh and pressed. The witch always spoke clear and crisp. Commanding attention and displaying a confidence Pansy simply never had. And this time, she had a look in her eye that had Pansy very worried.

Uh oh. 

“Susan,” Pansy drank deeply from her coffee, feeling unsure. “How are you?”

The witch was some big-shot healer, and, during the course of her relationship with Neville, the two of them had become rather friendly. She was the only one of Neville’s friends Pansy actually liked. She was the only other one who noticed how underappreciated Neville went by the majority of his family and friends. Therefore, Susan was the only other one with a damn brain, in her opinion.  
But then, well, she wasn’t with Neville anymore. She hadn’t expected to see Susan again after she broke things off. 

“Oh you know, another day,” Susan smiled while taking off her robes and putting them on the coat hanger. Underneath, she wore a navy colored silk blouse and dark slacks. “I’m quite nervous though.”

Pansy felt drab in comparison, though she was sure that hadn’t been Susan’s intent. “It’s nice to see you,” she said honestly. “But no time to visit, I’m afraid. I have an appointment coming any minute now.” 

“I know,” Susan stood before her, tall and regal, looking put together and lovely. “It’s me. I’m your appointment.” 

“Ellie?” Pansy asked, suddenly dreading the next hour. 

“Susan Eleanor Bones,” Susan grinned. “My aunt called me Ellie.”

And she used the nickname, because otherwise Pansy would have canceled the appointment. She sucked it up though, and patted the chair encouragingly. “What can I do for you today?”

Susan rolled up the sleeve on her right arm and sat in the chair, a little bundle of nerves. Pansy sat next to her, with her sketch pad, and listened as she described the little design she wanted to honor the aforementioned aunt. 

“It’s pretty,” Pansy told her, showing Susan the sketch of the triskelion symbol mixed with the Wizengamot sigil, a little A in the corner. Slowly, the dread from earlier was fading away. Susan seemed to be here for a tattoo, and not to chew Pansy out for breaking her best friend’s heart. “I’ll use the temporary ink so you have a week to decide if you want to keep it.”

“No, if you do that, I will definitely chicken out,” Susan smiled nervously.

“You sure?” Pansy asked, writing up the contract, and adding in the friend discount. “You seem uncertain.”

“Not about this, I want the ink,” Susan assured her. “For my aunt.”

“Alright, sign here, and I’ll get started.”

Pansy tapped her wand against her tattoo gun and adjusted the chair for Susan’s height before retaking her seat. She began. 

The moment the needle touched her skin, Susan rushed out quickly, “So are you seeing anyone?”

And the dread came back all at once. Gulping, she said, “No, and I don’t talk about my personal life with clients.” 

“You gave me the friend discount,” Susan reminded her, that nervousness suddenly disappearing.

“Still a client, contract and all.” Her voice squeaked unpleasantly. 

“Fine, I’ll talk to distract myself,” Susan said suddenly full of confidence. 

Shit. She hated Neville’s god damned friends.

“See, I have this friend, my best friend really, best guy I’ve ever known. And I felt bad for him, he worked long work days, and he never really got any help after the war, you know? He started seeing this girl,” Susan said with mock politeness. “She was a real bitch, really.” 

Pansy paused her work, swallowing back her anger. Her guilt. The bitter taste in her mouth had nothing to do with Susan though, as rude as the woman was acting, but rather because she truly believed Neville deserved better. Way better than anything she could give him. Way better than his freeloading family and his ignorant friends. 

Just… better.

Deciding to take the heat, Pansy continued working on Susan. Words were words, they wouldn’t hurt her unless she let them.

The redhead continued. “She’s a total freeloader, ate up all of my friend’s time, treated him sweet but turned around and was nasty to his friends and his family. She always wanted to go out to fancy dinners and demanded jewelry and flowers and expensive chocolates from him. And he gave everything to her. And when he tried to break it off, she decided to tell everyone that he forced himself on her. To try to extort money from him.” 

Pansy didn’t look up, didn’t stop her work, though clearly Susan wasn’t talking about her as she originally thought. And her anger transferred from Susan to this unknown woman quite easily.

“Obviously, my friend, he would never do something like that. Not him. His name got cleared, eventually. But he couldn’t date again. He couldn’t trust women not to do the same thing. He couldn’t trust their intentions.”

“Who would?” she mumbled under her breath. “You should keep the name of this woman to yourself.”

The moment the words came out of her mouth she knew she’d made a mistake. She wasn’t supposed to care about Neville anymore. Or all along. Or something. 

“But then,” Susan smirked, not commenting on Pansy’s slip. “He started mentioning, casually, how he ran into a woman, kind of quiet, very private, and surprise twist, she doesn’t want anything at all from him. Leaving him… heartbroken.” 

“Surprise, surprise,” Pansy wheeled her chair around, coming in from a different angle. She could have just as easily moved Susan’s wrist, but this way put Pansy’s back to the woman currently setting her up. “Susan, I appreciate what you’re doing. You’re my favorite of his idiot friends-”

“They are idiots,” she agreed. “They aren’t as bad as his Gran.”

“That’s what I said!” Pansy shouted rather loudly.

She knew something had happened. Neville was intensely concerned about getting permission when touching her. And now that she thought about it...

“I apologize,” she said softly. “For hurting your friend, Susan Eleanor Bones. I hope you will continue to be his friend.” 

She sat up and held up Susan’s wrist, showing off her work. “You like it?”

Susan nodded, “Yes, very much so. And you?”

“I think it looks good, may I take a picture? For my wall?” 

Another nod. “I meant, what do you hope for yourself? In regards to my friend? You’re not seeing anybody.” 

“God, you’re persistent. I can’t give him something I don’t have, Susie…”

“What do you have?”

“Ink,” Pansy laughed, but it came out hollow. “And confusion.”

.

A week of tossing and turning finally pushed Pansy to the public library a few blocks from Gringotts, in a dusty corner with the past editions of The Daily Prophet. It was Susan’s word use that got to her. ‘His name got cleared, eventually' is what she said. 

Meaning this unknown woman had taken her claim, the claim that Neville had assaulted her, public. In the magical community, that meant The Daily Prophet. Throw in the fact that he was a big hero during the war, Pansy would bet money that the story made the paper. Maybe even front page. 

She’d been ready to let it slide, except her uncooperative brain decided to supply her with image after image of her time with Neville. Times when he, to her pleasure, might have gotten a little rowdy during sex, only for him to stop. To ask if she was okay. 

Times when he seemed unsure until she persuaded him. In hindsight, she realized what his behavior was. He was damn traumatized and managed to hide it behind that smile of his.

And someone had done that to him. 

This woman. This infuriating woman who tried to extort him.

She tried to forget about it, really, she did. After all, she broke things off with Neville Longbottom. It was just sex. Nothing more. Nothing else. Why did it matter that years ago, some bitch tried to wreck his life? 

Except, Pansy couldn’t let it go. It kept her up at night, kept her toes bouncing anxiously, kept her tired eyes open. Until she had to know. Had to find out what her name was. 

She wouldn’t do anything with the information.

She just had to know.

Night after night, she closed the shop at around 2 AM, and wandered the dark streets to the library, which was always open. Straight to the dusty corner, where she dug through The Daily Prophet’s. She started with the one from her birthday three years ago, when she ran into Neville at Divina’s, and crawled backward. Day by day. 

Skimming page by page until her eyes hurt. 

She knew she was obsessed. 

Much the same way she spent hours and hours sketching Neville’s eyes. She couldn’t stop. She trudged through article after article about the Blessed Harry Potter, his family, his friends. New laws pushed through at The Ministry of Magic, a new world, a new government after the war. Magic, money, potions. And trial after trial of former Death Eater’s.   
Including her own father. 

She even found her and Armistead’s engagement announcement from years ago. The arranged marriage to bridge two families in competitive business with each other. Two potion supply moguls, combining forces. The damn thing didn’t even mention the wedding at all. It read like a Peace Treaty between two warring nations. 

She should’ve said no right from the get go. If only she knew then that she could make it on her own. 

On the 6th night, she found mention of Neville. His bid to buy out a large chain of greenhouses accepted, making him a millionaire overnight. The writer didn’t seem to have much faith in his ability to run such a large business and predicted his failure within weeks. 

Idiot.

But it mentioned something else. 'Unsavory rumors surrounding Neville Longbottom makes this reporter more and more certain he isn’t qualified to be in such a position of power.'

She flipped to the next edition, eyes burning. Then the next. Then another.

“There,” she ran her finger underneath the words, to help her read through her sleep deprivation. 

'Magical Law Enforcement questioned Neville Longbottom yesterday in regards to sexual assault allegations.'

She read the article three times. It never mentioned who made the allegations. 

“Damn it to hell.” 

She hated research! Her eyes went back to the beginning and she used a pencil to scribble down the author of the article.

The next day, she made the strongest coffee she’d ever made before, and then headed out to find a Teresa Hampton at The Daily Prophet. She went in through the front door and right into the bustle and noise of the newspaper manufacturer. People ran around her like they couldn’t see her, shouting at other people who didn’t notice her either. 

It was far too much noise for her. She could never work in such conditions. 

“Hi,” she said to the person she assumed was the front receptionist. “Hello? ... I’m looking for Teresa Hampton?”

The witch wore magenta colored robes with a matching pointed hat, her lips pursed in the same color. It was hideous against her pale skin, but Pansy didn’t mention that. “Hello!!!??”

She slammed a hand down on the desk. 

“Three doors down!” the witch squeaked rudely, pointing.

“Thanks,” Pansy rolled her eyes and walked through the minefield that was the Prophet’s office. A million people to her one. She squeezed through them until she found a door with ‘T.H.’ on the front. 

She didn’t knock, because who would hear it anyways with this racket? 

Inside the office, a messy, haphazard place Pansy did not feel safe in whatsoever, another witch sat behind what she assumed was a desk. One covered with files, photos, and papers. Some of them wiggling with energy. “Hello?”

If she said that one more time, she was going to lose it. Or maybe, lack of sleep was making her cranky?

Maybe she was just a cranky person all the time. 

“Hi, Pansy.”

The witch looked up with clear blue eyes and set her quill down. 

“Do we know each other?”

“Teresa Hampton,” she held her hand out to shake. “My maiden name is Flowers.”

Shit. Double shit.

Pansy took the outstretched hand, though she would’ve rather fallen into a sinking hole. Permanently. 

Teresa continued, “I was at your wedding. Armistead is my… third cousin?”

“I’d offer apologies, but if you’re married, you know weddings can be a blur,” she said awkwardly. 

“Very true,” Teresa nodded. “No apologies are necessary, I’m sure being married to Army was punishment enough.”

“No… comment,” but Pansy smiled, remembering Armistead treated most of the women in his family like dirt upon his expensive Italian leather boot. Teresa didn’t seem to be an exception.

“So, what can I do for you?” Teresa asked kindly, pushing dark hair off her shoulders. 

Introductions over, Pansy realized now was the time to get the information she wanted. Except, she hadn’t a clue how to get it without explaining why. She didn’t exactly have a good reason. 

“I…” she blinked several times. “If I wanted some information, do you think we could keep it between us?”

“What’s in it for me?” she asked, all business.

“How about some ink? I run a tattoo parlour on South St., Diagon Alley. Free tat for some info?”

Teresa looked absolutely bewildered at such an offer. “A tattoo?? I’ve never considered getting one before,” she hummed in wonder. “Well, I’m certainly intrigued. What would you like to know?” 

“Okay, this seems weird, but, you wrote an article about six years ago about sexual assault allegations against… hmm… Neville Longbottom, do you remember writing that article?” she stammered out. 

Tapping her quill against the desk, Teresa thought hard, then nodded. “I do actually. It was one of my first for the paper.”

“Do you happen to remember who made the allegations?” 

“Why exactly do you want this information?” Teresa asked quietly, her gaze steady on Pansy. 

“I really don’t have an acceptable reason, except, I really need it,” Pansy finished lamely. 

“Is anyone going to get hurt if I tell you her name?”

Shaking her head, Pansy gave her a firm no. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She just needed to know.

"Her name was Mellony Castlet, and when her accusations turned out to be false, her father donated a large sum of gold to keep her name out of the paper. My supervisor forced me to abandon the story," Teresa explained, sounding a bit put off. “I wanted to do a piece to clear Mr. Longbottom’s name, but he didn’t seem worried about it when I broke the news that the paper was moving on. Seemed kind of heartbroken about it all though.”

Pansy withdrew a business card from her pocket. "Owl in an appointment time, ink's on me."

.

A Great Grey owl, one of the largest owls she’d ever seen, swooped down and dropped a letter in her hands. One she’d been expecting from an old friend, the first person to ever get ink from her.   
She thought back to 6th year, listening to Draco cry from the stress and pressure of it all. ‘I don’t want it to be my first ink, Pans. It’s the only thing I have control over.’ She remembered sneaking into Snape’s ingredient cabinet, stealing away bits to make her ink. Sneaking into his dormitory with her needle and wand, and the blue ink she made using wood ash and beetle skins. 

He was the only person she really trusted for such a shady favor. 

She unfolded the letter, which held a single line written with an elegant script. She memorized the words and then tore the parchment into bits, tossing them in the bin. 

Her obsession mounting. It wasn’t enough just to know anymore. She made a liar out of herself. Now she needed to see. 

She dug out an old black cloak from the back of her messy closet, pulling the faded hood up over her head. Then she locked up the shop and left under the cover of night. Having no idea what the hell she was doing. 

It took her an hour to walk to the address, and then, stomach queasy with uncertainty, she hid in the first bush she found that would cover her. 

“What am I doing here?” she asked herself quietly, hiding in a damn knotweed bush, feeling absolutely ridiculous. She couldn’t see anything in the house, though light peeked through a curtain on the first floor. 

There was no reason for her to be there--just this nagging desperation to get one glimpse of the woman that broke Neville’s heart years ago. 

She tested her footing and clumsily made her way around the house, towards the back. Jumping, and tripping over, the little white gate that separated the front yard from the back. She hoped to god no one spotted her acting like the fool she was. Once in the backyard, she spotted a neat line of rose bushes in full bloom and thought maybe they could provide better cover?

Except she didn’t think she could get over there without walking through the open area of the yard. 

She peaked around, unable to help herself. The fence made the place private, and the window on the side of the house had a sheer curtain she could easily see through. She tiptoed over, pressed her face into the window, and looked through. 

It looked like… the hallway of a regular house. She couldn’t see another person and she began to wonder what she had expected. Maybe an evil lair, some greasy, ugly witch sitting in the corner, plotting nefariously?

She was off the rails, she realized quite suddenly. And maybe in a bit of danger. What would this Mellony say if she caught Pansy snooping? It might get linked back to Neville. It wasn’t like they kept their relationship a secret, though they hadn’t advertised either. She might get him in real trouble-

?!?!

Two hands grabbed her shoulders from behind right before pulling her for Side-Along Apparation. Her least favorite feeling in the world. She squeezed her eyes shut, though she knew the squeak that came out of her mouth sounded less than pleasant. 

When she landed, she fell to her knees and hands and started dry heaving. 

“Shit, I forgot, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Hands pulling her hair back. Familiar, warm hands to go with a familiar, warm voice. “Pansy, I’m so sorry, I forgot.”

He forgot that she never Apparated because it turned her stomach inside out and she spent at least 5 minute puking her guts up. Side-Along was hardly any better. He disappeared for a moment, coming back with a cool towel that he placed against her sweaty forehead. 

“How did you,” she paused when her mouth filled with water unpleasantly, nausea making her head spin. “How did you find me?” 

She finally bit out the question, taking the water Neville held out, and sitting back on her butt. As the minutes ticked by, her stomach settled down and she found herself leaning against him, her head buried in his chest as he petted his fingers through her hair. 

“I know you,” he answered a long time later, sounding sad.

Anxiety rolled angrily inside her, making her tremble. She hated this. Hated their position and how vulnerable it made her feel. Hated that he found her deep in the throes of her unhealthy obsession just like he found her sketchbooks. 

Hated that quite suddenly she realized that the day she rejected Neville’s proposal, she lost more than a lover. She lost her best friend.

“Susan showed me the tattoo, told me what you two talked about. I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up, looking for Mel.” 

“Mel?” she choked out the word. That he had a nickname for the woman made her heart hurt. It meant he trusted her enough to let his guard down. She covered her face with her fingers, realizing the same exact thing happened between them.

“You can’t possibly be jealous of her?” he asked cautiously, fingers tightening in her hair. 

“No,” she pulled away. Uncomfortable. And not jealous. Obsessed. It was easier to focus on the other woman that broke Neville’s heart than on herself. But now, she was in the heart of his territory, his bedroom, in his family home, in the place he proposed, and where she later rejected him. But before that, before she said no, they spent hours and hours in his bed. Learning each other, teasing each other. 

Loving each other. 

She just didn’t realize it at the time. Too concerned about what people would say about her to figure out what she wanted. 

She rolled up onto her feet and held her face for another moment, taking short, controlled breaths of air, before turning and looking at Neville. Dark eyes sent an ache down her body instead of warmth. A knot of pain forming right in her chest.

Because of the late hour he looked awful. Dark circles under his eyes, his beard and hair more messy than usual. He stood up from his spot on the floor and crossed his arms. “Please tell me what you thought you were doing? If you had been caught, if I had been caught there, it would’ve-”

“Been really bad for you, I know,” she nervously twisted her hands together. “I didn’t think about it until I was already there.”

His hands came out, the gesture clearly asking what the hell?

“I wasn’t thinking, Nev, I can’t stop thinking about her,” she admitted softly, rubbing her chest.

“Why?” he asked harshly, sounding hurt. So damn hurt. “Why her?”

“She hurt you,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I can’t stop thinking about it, it keeps me up at night,” she let out a low, unattractive whine, trying not to cry. The sound somehow making it impossible not to. “I can’t help wondering if I… If I…”

Her hand patted against her chest as she tried, and failed, not to burst into tears. “If I hurt you as badly as she did.”

She found herself in his arms, though she knew she hadn’t moved, crying heavily enough it hurt her head. “Shh,” he whispered into her hair, holding her close. “Why does it matter to you if you hurt me? Hmm? Remember,” he said in a comforting tone. “It’s just sex between us.” 

God, he was trying to joke. It made her cry harder. And why the hell was he the one comforting her? She should’ve been groveling at his feet. He said, “I hoped you would go after her.”

Because it proved she felt more for him than she said. They both knew it. If he hadn’t before, he knew now, with the way she clutched at his shirt. Crying into his chest. Her desperation obvious. 

“Just tell me,” she choked out, hideous with tears. She’d always been an ugly crier. “I need to know.”

She looked up and met Neville’s eyes, saw how confused he looked. “Know what?”

“Which one of us hurt you more?”

Neither answer would soothe her. Knowing wouldn’t help the ache in her heart, just the opposite really. She knew herself. Knew that if he said Mellony, she would spend a long time hating a woman she never met, unable to help or do anything about it. And unable to confront her without possibly getting Neville in trouble.

If he said her name on the other hand… 

“What happened with Mel happened a long time ago. I know she didn’t really love me,” he said slowly. “I knew, back then, that she wanted other things from me.”

By other things, he meant money. 

In a quiet, thoughtful voice Neville answered her question in a classic Neville way. “I didn’t expect her to do what she did, but I should have.”

Pansy sniffed, crawling away from him on her hands and knees. She grabbed onto the edge of his bed, pulled herself up, and walked into his bathroom without another word. She got her answer, the one she’d been looking for all these weeks of anxiety and lack of sleep. Of tossing and turning, researching and obsessing. 

And as expected, it didn’t make her feel better in the least.

She spent a good amount of time over the sink, running cold water against her face. She cupped her hands under the faucet and drank deeply afterwards, then brushed her hair with his comb.   
She thought about her marriage.

It had taken every ounce of courage to ask for that divorce, to stand there while Armistead laughed like she’d told a joke. But it was more than a divorce to her. She needed a different life, she couldn’t go on doing the same thing with him anymore.

As she couldn’t go on doing what she was doing now either. 

Armed with that realization, she left the bathroom with a fresh face, though she felt god-awful tired. Neville still sat in the same place, in the middle of the floor, his elbows braced against his knees with his chin in his palms. 

“How can I fix this?” she asked, laying her heart on the table. 

He blinked a few times as he tried to process her words. “There’s nothing to fix.” 

“Between us…”

“I told you what I wanted,” he said, not moving from his spot. 

“Wanted,” she repeated slowly.

“I told you,” it came out a little forcefully this time. “What I want. You don’t want the same things as I do. That’s not something you can fix. It’s just something we have to live with.” 

Nodding, Pansy turned around and stripped off her dirty cloak, throwing it to the ground. Next went her boots and jeans. She slid her fingers underneath her t-shirt and unhooked her bra, pulling it through the arm hole in her sleeve. 

He was right.

She would just have to live with what she did to him. That she broke his heart because she was too scared to stand up to her family. Too scared of what people who didn’t matter would say. Would she ever learn from her mistakes? 

She did the only thing she could do.

She crawled into his bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin. 

Listening as he rolled up to his feet and came to stand on her side of the bed. “What are you doing, Flowers?”

Her eyes popped open and looked at him. “Parkinson,” she said softly. 

His face broke out into the biggest smile she’d ever seen from him, the action making her heart soar. “You changed it.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. “If I marry you…”

His smile grew even bigger.

“Can I keep my name?”

“I insist,” he said. Then he crawled into bed with her.

.

“I still don’t understand why you chose not to wear white, dear,” her mother said quietly, as if afraid someone would overhear them speaking about her royal blue knee-length lace dress. 

Like they couldn’t already see it.

“Mother, I’ve been married once before,” she said, standing next to Neville in his suit. He wasn’t wearing a tie, the collar open and informal, and her parents, as well as his gran, disapproved highly of that choice.

“I’ve had sex,” she continued dramatically. “The jig is up.”

Besides, blue was Neville’s favorite color. 

Patricia Parkinson scoffed, lace-gloved fingers dabbing a handkerchief against her cheeks. “That is highly inappropriate, Pansy.”

Her mother wasn’t crying, she just wanted others to think she was. 

“I like it,” Neville said, his arm wrapped around her waist. He pulled her in a little closer. “It shows off all your ink.”

Beside them, her father’s eyes bulged. “Come, Patty, let us share a dance why don’t we?” 

The moment her parents stepped out of earshot, she and Neville burst into a fit of giggles. Ever since the night she took him to meet Patricia and Gilbert Parkinson, ever since Neville looked her father in the eye and told him he was marrying her with or without his permission, Gilbert seemed to have given up trying to control Pansy. 

It was a relief, honestly. 

The procession continued, and Neville’s gran Augusta stopped before them, a fox curled around the brim of her red hat. Augusta kissed her cheeks stoically, patted Neville on the shoulder, and let out a curt, “Congratulations to you both,” before moving along. 

Next came Neville’s cousin, Mandy, who squealed with girlish delight and hugged her rather violently. “You have to come around for dinner, as soon as possible!!!”

Pansy rubbed the ache from her neck, side-eyeing Neville as Mandy basically molested him. The first time his cousin came around after they got back together, Pansy realized, rather badly, Mandy didn’t come around only for the money, though Nev certainly gave her plenty, but because they were the only two of the family under the age of 60. After she scampered away, cooing about a roast Pansy knew would be burnt to hell, Neville leaned in. 

“My gran was the one who taught her to cook.”

“Not surprised,” she whispered back. “You couldn’t pay me to eat your cooking.” 

He snorted as Pear and her husband, Nigel, toted two perfectly put together young ladies dressed to match in ruffled purple robes. Prue and Pippa both curtsied before Neville before hugging Pansy’s side. 

“Precious girls,” Pear gushed, hugging her tightly. She whispered, “Love you little sissy.”

“Love you, too, big sister.” 

Neville shook Nigel’s hand and then they were off. “I cannot stand this part,” he told her. 

“My feet hurt,” she whispered back. Her mother conned her into wearing heels again. It seemed a little enough thing to do for her put out mother, except now she regretted it immensely. 

“I’ll rub them later for you,” he offered, whispering it into her ear in such a way that sent goosebumps across her neck. 

“Is it later yet?” she leaned up to kiss along his jaw. “I have a few other things you can rub.”

He ran his fingers through her long hair, which grew like wildfire the night they reunited. “Will you return the favor, wife?” 

“Yes,” she promised, getting lost in his dark eyes, fingers running through his beard like she loved to do, messing it up a bit. “Later.”

“Later,” he sighed, kissing her cheek.

A long line of friends came after the family, shaking their hands and offering congratulations. Including the lovely Susan Bones. She hugged Neville for a long minute before she turned her attention to Pansy. 

“Oof, hello Ellie,” she hugged the witch back. 

“Still feeling confused?” Susan asked with a wicked little smile. 

She looked over to her husband. Her family certainly had a lot to say about her choice to marry him, but that was the key word.

Choice.

She chose him. 

And there was nothing confusing about that. 

“No,” she smiled, which he returned. 

She had about a million tattoo ideas for him, as well as a few for herself. She couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life with him, hopefully mostly naked in her chair, torturing him in the best way. 

“Just inked.”


End file.
